SherlockDexter crossover
by kelsiemeserveyahoo.com
Summary: crossover fanfiction about sherlock holmes and dexter


Kelsie Collins

Final Media Project

Ann McClellan

12.16.13

Exposing the "Dark Passenger"

A Dexter/ Sherlock Fan Fiction

The sky was spotted with a few stars lighting the sky and unveiling bits of my "dark passenger" while I fed its needs. I headed towards my boat, ironically named "slice of life", and carried a heavy trash bag with it in the marina where it was docked. This bag of body parts was once a human, or what I would consider a sub-human potentially even more sub-human than myself. The smell of bleach singed my already singed nostrils, but I felt comfort in the burning. It was a part of the ritual that I followed like an addiction and knew all too well.

I drove my boat deep into the water until I found the area where I normally finished the ritual. Throwing the bag into the ocean, I exhaled pure relief in knowing I was cleansing the world of its unpunished filth. Kara Docker, a woman who killed her children years ago and was found not guilty on the terms of lack of evidence. She was now a deserving addition to the burial of people who thought they could get away with an unspeakable injustice. Although I was just as much a serial killer as any other, I found myself at a more justifiable level than all the others. With the help of my father, Harry, I am able to use my uncontrollable urges towards something positive. In the words of Harry, "It's not about vengeance, not about retaliation, or balancing the books - it's about something deep inside."

For a moment, I sensed the presence of someone hanging over me and finding out my secrets. I had felt this presence lurking like fog around me for the past few rituals in this boat. It was an uneasy feeling, knowing my senses were hardly off and that someone was likely watching. I shook off my nerves, and drove back towards the marina. My ritual was unflawed with barely room for anyone's discovery. The water splashed up against the sides of "slice of life" and the harsh, Miami wind lashed at my eyes blurring my vision. From a distance, I got see a tall, thin figure standing in a trench coat at the edge of where I usually parked my "slice of life". When I wiped my eyes, the vision of a man had disappeared and been replaced with an envelope in between the dock boards. I parked the boat, and read.

Hello Sir,

I was under the work of a client asking for the whereabouts of a Kara Docker. I have reasons to believe that you may have an involvement in her disappearance. Please meet me at my temporary home at 3319 Meadow Lane; I'm sure you will have no trouble finding it.

Sincerely,

Holmes

I watched my knuckles turn white as I crumpled the letter. The address to a home that reopened wounds from the second most devastating loss of my life, next to my mother's death and the cause of my "dark passenger". A woman who knew so little about me but allowed me to keep the darker corners of myself hidden and love me regardless. The mother that my son had lost as an infant in front of his helpless eyes, just as I had lost my mother on my childhood. An awful, repeating tradition within the family. This man wanted to expose me not only of my "dark passenger" but of the pain I had tried to hide myself from for years. If he knew as much as I thought he knew, then I needed to go against my instincts. The perfect home, as it is still mine, to finish off a man who thinks he has me by the neck.

Taking his offer, I quickly got into my SUV and drove it back to the place where I was first inspired to buy such a family oriented car. That, and the fact that it had a lot of hidden trunk space for my "nights off". I sped as fast as I could without drawing attention and finally pulled into the now unused driveway. There was no other car in the driveway, but there were fresh tire tracks against the front lawn and the street that indicated someone had dropped him off recently. The lights flickered on and a man sat inside from the open bay window. He was drinking from a dusty mug pulled from the cupboard, almost mocking me.

I smirked to myself at the challenge and walked into my once "home sweet home". My smirk faded quickly as I looked around at the now cobwebbed, empty carcass. Most of the memories that lay within this home were faded away, almost as faded as my memories of such a better time in my life. The orange paint was peeling off the cement walls in little chips and the floor was discolored. It was a sad, distorted version of a place that I was raised a family in. I retrospect; they never really knew anything about me, but the fact that my wife, stepchildren, and child all loved me unconditionally. This home held the only place that I could hide without feeling hidden. I felt weakened with emotion, which I assumed was the exact reason for Holmes' insisting I be here. Out of the left corner of the room I heard a man say with what I assumed was a British accent, "Welcome to my cozy rental home, Mr. Morgan".

Without looking at him first, I responded, "You haven't paid rent yet". I took off my leather gloves and turned my head to inspect what I was up against. By the first glance I could tell he was from an occupation as observant as mine. He was finding me under the duress of a client, so I assumed a detective would be likely. Holmes looked at me as I looked at him, analyzing every movement, every facial expression.

His pale, blue eyes were bright in comparison to his alabaster tone and his curled, dark hair wrapped itself around his face. He almost reminded me of my once living brother, Brian, with not only his looks, but also his serious disposition. Even down to the way he crouched his thin frame over my table and stared reminded me of my brother. His grey trench coat was thrown over the table casually and he motioned for me to sit across from him. I took the seat and while we were still in silence, I pulled out a syringe from my left work boot.

Holmes straightened his posture as mine bent forward in anticipation. "Mr. Morgan, I have the utmost respect for a man in any career. This occupation you have is very peculiar. As I had explained in my letter, I have a client looking for a Ms. Docker. Unfortunately, I think you may know of her whereabouts in a rather morbid pretense."

He smiled in a weirdly sincere way while he tapped his shined dress shoes against a leg of the table. I let a little laugh trickle out as I watched him pretentiously sitting across from me. He thought he had me caught. In a way, I knew that he was suspecting I had some sort of weapon under the table. Holmes was, after all, a detective of sorts. It was obvious he was far along in his career as I watched his every movement the same way he watched mine. I saw through his calm persona to the uncertain anxiety that lay under the surface. He was more like my brother than I had previously inspected. I couldn't shake the thought, and I hoped Holmes couldn't detect it.

I smiled until I could practically feel the corners of my lips ripped through my cheeks, still holding the syringe under the table. "All of the cases you've solved end when you solve them. Unfortunately, Holmes, I don't think this case will be following that stereotype."

To my surprise, he continued his contented smile and stared right into my head and through my brain like lasers. Holmes' responded, "I know you killed Ms. Docker. That is something I will be reporting to my client. I will tell her that her friend is dead, but I could not find the murderer. I will then recommend she move on, as it was apparent that my client was involved in the crimes Ms. Docker had committed. Otherwise she would have gone to the police, not a private detective."

I could feel my face fall into one of confusion. "Then why are you even here, Mr. Holmes?"

He began to relax, as if I had just opened the topic he wanted to talk about. "Dexter, I'm here because I also know about your brother, Brian Moser. I know because he's mine too."

For the first time in a long time, I froze. I released my grip, allowing the syringe to fall into the hardwood floor. It clacked against the wooden chair and although it was apparent Holmes noticed I had dropped something he didn't move his body, not even his eyes. My heart was banging like a gong against my chest. I never panicked, and I attempted to make sure I didn't break the trend. I managed to calm myself quickly in the midst of another stare down and reply, "Why didn't Brian tell me about you".

He was quick to respond. "Maybe he was afraid you'd kill me too. You know, Dexter, I have heard a lot about you from Brian. You've probably puzzled together that those feelings on the boat that you were being watched was me. So it is obvious I know a lot about you." He paused and watched my face again. I relaxed all of my muscles and created a look of pure serenity. He continued, "We should talk more tomorrow".

Without letting me say a word, he got up and walked towards me. Holmes bent down next to my feet, picked up the syringe, and placed it in his coat pocket. He looked at me once more and left a note on the table before going out the door. The note had an address, presumably his. I left it there and towards my old bedroom. The bed was still there, one of the only things I didn't want in the new apartment with Harrison, my son. I was afraid the smell of her perfume would haunt me in my sleep, even with the other things in a storage unit.

Against my better judgment, I laid in the bed and to my surprise her smell was still there. It was like smelling candles used in your children, a blast into the past. It reminded me about her floral scent of lavender and lilies, flowers that embodied innocence. Eventually, what started with reminiscing turned into sleep. I woke up in the morning, disoriented. Forgetting that I had accidentally fallen asleep, I thought I was in some sort of perfect dream. I called for my late wife, Rita, before realizing she wasn't here and I wasn't dreaming.

I pushed the mattress a little ways off the frame as I got up and walked back to the kitchen table where Sherlock's note lay. Without a second thought, I left the house and hopped back into the van. While the GPS set up attached to my windshield, I tried to straighten myself up. My dark green thermal was sticking to my body from sleeping in Miami weather without any air conditioning. I ran my fingers through unwashed hair and plugged in the address. Driving a little slower than usual, I was unsure about going to see Sherlock. Was he my brother? Otherwise, how did he know Brian?

Surprisingly, the office was only a few minutes from my old home on 3319 Meadow Lane. Before I left the car, I loaded another syringe discreetly and put it into my pocket before walking into the small office building. It was filled with people waiting in the hallways for business appointments and I knew he had picked this for a reason. It was a good way to avoid people like me coming in and hurting him at the risk of people nearby. As casually as possible, I knocked on the door. With no answer, I opened it and walked in. The office was even emptier than 3319 Meadow Lane. Not even a speck of dust could be seen anywhere in the room. At closer inspection, there was another note attached to my syringe on the desk.

Dear Brother,

My birth name is Joseph Moser, after our suspected father Joseph Driscoll. You can look me up under Debra and Jacob Holmes. I was adopted in the hospital by a kind English couple and taken to their country. You know what you needed to know in this meeting. Unfortunately, it was important I leave because of a backup of clients. I will not expect any further contact from you.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Joseph Holmes

PS- I emptied the syringe. Sorry.

Final Reflection

Technology is a source that is directly connected to writers. We are living in a time where electronic texts, vlogs and blogs, hypertext, etc. are extremely popular. My opinion is that without the technological tools as an English major aspiring to be an author I am essentially expecting myself to fail by not keeping up with electronic literature and its subgenres. This project took especially long for me to finish as I take a lot more time on my creative writing than anything else. What normally would be a three hours process became a weeklong. I found that it was easiest for me to do a fan fiction because I am not much of an artist or videographer and wanted this project to be one of my best so I chose to write an eight-page long fan fiction and include a silly "bitstrip" with it at my best attempts of a fanart.

Bitstrip -  ?comic_id=S8H47&sc=1


End file.
